


Wild Child Full of Grace

by Lise



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aredhel the original free spirit, Character Study, F/M, Gen, not sure how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aredhel, betrayal, and the days before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Child Full of Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdleLeaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/gifts).



When she was young and beautiful, she knew exactly how her life would go. She had an older brother who adored her (would do anything for her) and a cousin who smiled quickly and often (and always for her). She would never stop running, never stop hunting, would live forever under the shine of the stars and sleep naked in the grass. 

One night and the red-orange glow of fire on the horizon, her brother yelling in something between rage and anguish, and she felt that door slam closed. Fingon paced and raged to her until late, late in the night, and her heart hardened in her chest. 

_Never again,_ she told herself, _never again,_ because she’d made a terrible mistake and she should have known (somehow) she should have known. 

The anger was like poison, choking, strangling, closing her throat. 

When Fingon slept, finally, she slipped outside. The fires were still burning, their way across the sea now closed and Valinor behind them as well. The bloody beaches of Alqualonde between them and home. 

_Damn you,_ Aredhel thought. _Damn you. I thought better of you. Why did you have to go and prove me wrong?_

* * *

It was cold, merciless, and unyielding. It was the ice, and Aredhel thought she would dream of it for the rest of her life. Dream of freezing, dream of the bodies of the elves who laid down and surrendered to the cold and the sleep it offered. 

Of her father’s face, hardening to a perfect shell around the smile she’d loved so well as he pushed them onward, always onward. 

They were a month into that interminable march when Elenwë died. She nearly tripped over Turgon where he was crouching, trying to get Elenwë to her feet, shaking her, and when she knelt to help him she could see that her delicate skin was already blue, her fingers already hardening. 

“Turukáno,” she said, her voice rough-edged from cold, and he looked up at her, and she thought he might scream. 

He did not. His eyes howled at her and his mouth said, “Can we at least give her the semblance of a burial?”

Between Fingon’s silent bitterness and Turgon’s silent grief and her father’s silent determination, Aredhel sometimes thought she was the only one still speaking. She shouldered her gear and her bow and held herself tall, and let her tears freeze on her cheeks. 

Then she lifted her voice in song, anything she could think of, in defiance of the howling wind. Angamaite was the first to follow her example, his voice bright and clear. They sang into the storm and marched onward, and Aredhel dreamed of the stars, and the grass under her back (and the deep soft whisper of his voice in her ear, promising her the world).

Too many died, but they were alive at the end, the moon rising, and she saw her father smile.

* * *

Gondolin was a paradise. It was the perfect citadel, beautiful, hidden, unreachable. 

And walled. 

She understood, she did, Turgon’s need to get away from it all. He didn’t want this. Turgon had never voiced his desire to turn back when the Fëanorians had turned their backs, but Aredhel knew her brother and knew he would have if it weren’t for his loyalty to their father, and to Fingon. 

Turgon was trying to rebuild Valinor in a new land. Aredhel understood that as well. 

But she had never done well with walls, and there was a whole wide world that was hers to claim. 

“I would like to go,” she told her brother, and he looked at her, incredulous. 

“Go where?” She shrugged. Turgon crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, looking patiently exasperated. “Ireth.”

“Anywhere,” she said, “Everywhere. North, east, south, west. Hunting. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“You can’t just go wandering aimlessly. It’s dangerous out there.” Aredhel just looked at him, witheringly, and Turgon had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “I know you’re not helpless, sister, but I just-”

“You won’t lose me,” she said tartly. 

“You don’t know that.” Turgon’s mouth set in a thin line. “How much has this land already taken?” 

“I can’t stay here,” Aredhel pressed. “And you can’t tell me what to do, brother. Haven’t you learned that by now?” 

Turgon opened his mouth, and closed it. He looked suddenly tired, almost old, and she felt badly for speaking to him so. “Take a guard,” he said, finally, and just as she was about to open her mouth to protest, added, “Please,” so plaintively that she leaned down and kissed his forehead. 

“Thank you, brother,” she said. “I’ll return when I can.”

* * *

For the first month of her ride, it simply felt good to have a horse between her legs again, the wind through her hair. The moment they were free of the walls, she urged her mare into a gallop and laughed as freely and loudly as she had in years. The air smelled sweet and clean, and she was free; the entire world open to her. 

She rode for Nargothrond without really intending to, perhaps thinking of Maedhros and Fingon and their reconciliation; perhaps thinking that she might have her own. 

He wasn’t there when she arrived. Her own anger surprised her. “Where is he,” she demanded of the guard, and they seemed taken aback by something, by the fire in her eyes. “Where is he?”

Hunting. They didn’t know when he’d be back. Maybe days, maybe months. There was no way to tell, he never said. 

Aredhel turned on her heel and stalked away, her stomach clenching with frustration. He should be here. He owed her an explanation, owed her the chance to understand…

“We could wait,” the leader of her guard offered. 

“I won’t sit and wring my hands waiting for him to return,” she snapped. That wasn’t her. She was a hunter, fierce and wild and free, and he couldn’t take that away from her. She’d been silly to think that she would find anything here. Foolish. _Childish._ As if they were both still children and an apology might mend all their transgressions. 

“Then we can go home,” he suggested, seeming relieved. He missed the white walls, she could tell, the safety, the familiarity of Gondolin. 

“No,” she said, “Not yet. I didn’t leave the city for him.” I left for me. 

She pressed her lips together. Perhaps to the east. There might be many things to the east.


End file.
